


All I Want

by Mileycfan4eva



Category: Chicago Fire
Genre: F/M, Hurt/Comfort, POV Female Character, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-19
Updated: 2021-01-19
Packaged: 2021-03-17 07:15:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,236
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28845171
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mileycfan4eva/pseuds/Mileycfan4eva
Summary: Brettsey collection of one shots I take suggestions from readers and create Brett and Casey magic. Send me a request and I'll pop it the finger to the keyboard.
Relationships: Brettsey - Relationship
Kudos: 18





	All I Want

Fandom: One Chicago

Couple: Brettsey

Title: All I Want

Chapter: Love Wins

P O V: Sylvie Brett

"Fix him; if he dies, You die." The cold metal of the barrel is pressed against the back of my head; I can feel the blood rushing through my veins momentarily frozen as the one thought stays fixated inside my brain. There is a gun pressed in the back of my head; this monster is threatening to end my Life all because his brother took a hotshot. Now he excepts me to be a miracle worker, all while holding me at gunpoint.

"Ah!" My body shoots up, awakening from the nightmare, heart pounding so hard I feel sick to my stomach; the air inside my bedroom has grown stale, making my throat feel scratchy and raw. My body trembles so hard the bed under it is even shaking I'm mattered in a cold, sticky sweat. Turing to my bedside clock, I see the little green numbers flashing in neon shadows; it's only 12:20 am; leaning back down, I feel the groan escape my lips before I even hear it.

I have hours to go yet before it's even daylight, and I know sleep won't be coming to me again, just what I didn't need on my day off after the last shift I had. I seriously need to close my eyes and get a full 12 hours of sleep. Not going to happen now; throwing the thick covers off my delicate body, I take a second to allow myself to adjust to the chilled air.

I need to walk to get fresh air, so I can shake off the nightmare and stop hearing Joe Halleck's voice echoing inside my brain, but it's refusing to go away; his words weren't venomous or cold; he wasn't trying to be a gangster. Yet the cold metal of the gun pressed against my head gave his words a powerful meaning; it didn't matter how hard a thug this punk was; the weapon was all he needed to put the fear of death inside my head and heart.

Four hundred eighteen mass shootings took place in the US last year; gun violence severity in high school shootings has increased by over 50%. Police officers are 75% more likely to be victims of gun violence in high gun ownership states than in low gun ownership states. How lucky for me Chicago is one of those states where it is perfectly legal to own a gun if you have a concealed carry license. I'm not a police officer but a paramedic in the most violent city in the USA. I face the same dangers as any police officer. When those bells go off, I answer the call, never knowing what I am walking into; too often, the call described to us through dispatch ends up being entirely different. What starts as a simple OD can quickly escalate into a hostage situation within seconds. I have a job to do, though, so no matter the danger, I always have to keep in mind I took an oath to serve to protect to heal, never to judge or presume to know what someone is thinking or feeling.

I don't have time to think that gun violence in 2019 has contributed to more than 39,383 deaths. I don't have time to calculate the other 29,765 additional injuries related to firearms.

I'm afraid changing this law isn't going to happen any time in my lifetime or my children's lives if I am lucky enough ever to have children. Some days I wonder if I ever want to bring a child into this world if I can live each day knowing I am sending them off to school to be shot possibly.

Some of the deadliest mass shooting incidents in the US have taken place at high schools in recent years. Statistics on gun violence show that in addition to the Parkland shooting incident, ten students were killed and 14 were wounded in the Santa Fe High School shooting in Texas. And in Kentucky, Marshall County High School saw two students killed and 16 wounded. These figures from 2018 and are 54% higher than those seen five years previous in 2013.

I know the fear of being at a school shot up. I've been to two since I have been a paramedic in Chicago. I came here in 2014 the first school shooting happened on the south side of Chicago; it wasn't even our district, but when that call came out 10-33, all units respond.

"I just wanted to feel safe; I don't want to be brave; I'm sixteen. I came to school to learn, maybe to hook up with Kevin Angers; I mean, he is so cute. I don't want to die, am I going to die?" the voice of Dawn Andersen echos inside my head, the sixteen-year-old girl who lay inside my Ambo bleeding out from multiple gunshot wounds. All because of a classmate she never meet thought he could solve all his problems by bringing a semiautomatic to school.

Dawn died before we even got to the hospital; she bled out in my hands only sixteen; she never got to grow up to graduate to find her passion in life, she never got to tell Kevin she liked him. Why? Because the right to bare arms is more important than the lives of our children. People will always fight about this subject instead of going to the real issue of mental health, safety in schools; it'll still be about the right to bear arms.

Getting a gun on the streets of Chicago is ten times easier than getting a job. It's not just sad; it's fucking scary. I've had guns pointed at me more times than I can count since coming to work in Chicago, a problem I never had in my hometown in Indiana. Every-time I have had a gun pointed at me; it's been quite surreal. The first time someone pointed a gun at me, my emotions went from shock and disbelieving was this genuinely happening to me? Honestly, I thought I was dreaming I had watched a violent movie the night before. I felt as if I was stuck inside a nightmare, except I could hear and feel my heart beating in fear.

Fear came burrowing in; next, the gun was a 38. caliber the standard issued weapon for most police officers for years, one bullet to my spine, my chest, or even my stomach, and I risked bleeding out before help would arrive. My fear wasn't as intense as my anger and frustration, though who was this prick to threaten me? If he and his buddies wanted to play bang bang, I got you last fine; why call 911 then? Just have at it, shoot each other, leave the rest of us out of their sick games.

All I was trying to do was my damn job.

Somehow though it all, I remembered my training, and I kept myself calm even though inside, I was a bloody mess of nerves, fear, and sick butterflies. It hasn't gotten easier no matter how many times I have a gun pointed at me; it never will, I suppose, which maybe is a good thing; I think I will worry that the day having a loaded weapon pointed at me becomes normal.

It's quite right now, considering it is after midnight. I open the window and sit on the edge of the sill breathing in the fresh, crisp air. The entire room is draped in pitch blackness. I would be scared if I didn't know Matt Casey was asleep on my couch only a few feet away.

Growing up in Flowerton, Indiana, quite was perfectly normal; we lived on a farm on the city's outskirts only a few houses miles apart. I had a happy, carefree childhood filled with horseback riding lessons, campfires, chores on the farm. Walking alone in the garden, butterflies were my best friends; it wasn't unusual for them to fly right up to my fingers. Crickets and flowing water from the creek in the back of my house sung me to sleep in a sweet, quiet lure.

When I first came to Chicago, I was frightened by the city's sheer loudness; it never sleeps, even though it isn't the city that never sleeps; it incredibly never frigging stops.

Neon chrome flashes night and day, gunshots and screams are always ringing out along with church bells; traffic is frequently a blur of honking, tire squeals, and engine gunning. People fighting and laughing, the music of all genre's blasting day and night it uses to give me such a headache, I never slept through the night.

I longed for the quiet of home.

Till my partner and best friend Gabby Dawson told me to think of Chicago as a beat of life, to imagine that every sound was a part of the human body, each sound was vital to keep the body pumping. She reminded me that every sound represented a person the constant clanging of the metal think of it as a butcher who is chopping meat to make a profit that will provide for his family to eat and have a roof over his head.

The thump-thump of a rapper on a street corner is a teenager dreaming of a better life so he can make enough money to provide for his mama whose had to work three jobs to keep a clean, safe home for him and his three brothers.

The reeving of engines is grown men and women unities workers who have been working sixteen to twenty-four hours every day for weeks to keep the electric, water, and gas flowing through the city lines. So we can have light to fill up our homes, water to keep us hydrated, and gas to power our stoves, which support us, and keep us nourished. Gabby thought of Chicago as the beat to a terrible rap song, one she couldn't stop singing.

Now I get scared when it is too quiet; it makes me wonder where life is, why the music stopped. Right now, it's a perfect mix; the early Sunday morning hour has most people still asleep in their beds. Only a handful of people are out on the streets here in uptown Chicago.

From my window behind bars, I can see a preteen slinging rock on the corner; his figure slumped inside his hoodie, the hood pulled over his head. His buyer is an older man who looks as if he has been through too many wars to ever give voice to, it's unimaginable to think of a child no older than eleven selling drugs to keep afloat, but it is the reality for more than 55% of juveniles.

Inches away from the drug deal sits an older woman on the steps of the Saint. Francis of Assisi Church, who I call Lucky Lucy, is homeless but harmless her rags and dirt-caked winked skin, make identifying her age hard. Still, I place her in my mind around 56; she could be years younger it's hard to tell. Life on the streets will age a person rapidly add drugs or alcohol abuse to the equation. Twenty-six years can add up; it's a callous life. There's a lot of stress trying to find a place to sleep, trying to make sure that you have food, just trying to figure out what will happen day-to-day, exposed to the elements for very long periods, either the extreme cold or the intense heat. After about 30 minutes of being outside with people when I am on calls my fingers are frozen and in pain, now imagine homeless people on their feet for hours, it causes a lot of circulatory problems, foot and leg ailments. It's impossible to have a good diet when you're homeless. You're at the mercy of others, and a lot of the food you receive, even at soup kitchens, as well-meaning as they might be, lay heavily on the starch. Things that, as we're aging, our doctors tell us, we shouldn't be eating this kind of diet, but that's what they're exposed to all the time. So twenty-six can look forty after only a few months on the street.

I call her Lucky Lucy because while she's homeless, she always has a smile on her face, a glint of hope in her eyes, she's respected by the community, unlike most homeless people, she doesn't get spit at or pushed aside as if she is the scum of the earth, the kids all call her G'ma she treats each child as if they are her own child. Parents trust her to watch their kids while they work the corners; sure, these moms aren't your suburban moms who give their kids a ride to soccer practice. They're working girls who have to sell their bodies to make money, but they are moms who love their kids and who face judgment by society, but not Lucy, so they show her the same love she shows everyone else.

Lucy has more love than some people who have families and fancy homes that, to me, makes Lucy pretty damn lucky; in the distance, gunshots ring out again. I close my eyes counting the seconds between shots and listening to how far away they are. There are at least six shots, but they sound anywhere from three to four blocks away; while I don't feel safe, I feel less threatened than I thought I would. My body doesn't jump now; my heart aches though for the mother whose son or daughter was on the receiving end of that bullet.

I don't have to be on the scene to smell the gun powder or feel the cold metal against my head. Guess I feel slightly threatened after all my pulse speeds up as I try to even out my breathing. I can feel his breath against my skin even though he was a good five to six inches away, Joe his name was Joe well Joe's breath stank of whiskey and cigars, the body order coming off him was enough to make my stomach twist and churn even before I registered that there was a gun against my head.

The backfiring of the car sends me spiraling back to a few hours ago. I can hear the guns click, and my new partner Mackey is breathing heavily in fear; see her wide-eyed as she tries to process what is happening on her first call. Adrenaline rushed through my veins, taking every breath. I cover my ears, trying to terminate the flow of memories leaning my head back; I swallow, feeling my throat become even drier as the tears stick inside my eye sockets.

My body is still trembling as I hear those shots ringing out from six months ago a different call, two teenage gang members shooting each other over whose corner it belonged to as if either teen had a damn right to claim ownership of city property. Two victims lay in front of me, but I almost became the third victim when one of the Latin Disciples came back and opened fire, trying to eliminate any remaining Insane Spanish Cobras. The bullets whizzed against my temple hard, hot, causing an instant headache as my blood pressure increased. All I could focus on was getting my teenage victim to the safety of my Ambo.

Taking a deep breath, I softly sing a song from my youth, trying to calm my racing heart find a source of gravity of my dizziness to stop seeing the image of thirteen-year-old Miles Archers, the kid who I nearly got shot trying to save. To stop seeing his cubby face as he lay in the coffin, I try to stop hearing his mama's cries for her son, but all I can hear is the sounds of gunshots, the cries of the mothers of the fallen children, so I sing softly.

Perfect submission, perfect delight,

Visions of rapture now burst on my sight;

Angels descending bring from above.

Echoes of mercy, whispers of love.

"The song is beautiful, Brett; your voice is simply gorgeous." I jump slightly, hearing Matt Casey's voice call out; my eyes squint as I open them to adjust to the darkness; Matt stands shyly at the doorway shirtless, dear Lord, he is trying to kill me. I know Matt won't harm me, so I relax and flip the light closet to me shaking my head, shocked at the brightness as the source floods the room. "Thank you; it's called blessed assurance. It's a hymen from church, I use to love as a child."

"Well, you give it life." Matt comes closer, so now I can breathe in his scent, which is heavenly, a mixture of cinnamon and spice. "Sing me another, will you?" I feel my cheeks blush as I pull my knees to my chest so he can sit beside me. "Sure, any request?" Matt shrugs in his typical Matt Casey way flicking back his blond locks. "I wasn't much of a church person, so I don't know any." I think carefully, biting my lower lip feeling his eyes upon me. I wonder what he is thinking or feeling, but I am too chicken to ask. "Got one."

Let me see redemption win

Let me know the struggle ends

That you can mend a heart

That's frail and torn I wanna know a song can rise.

From the ashes of a broken life

And all that's dead inside can be reborn. Cause I'm worn.

"Well, I am right here; if you feel tired, Sylvie, you have my arms to hold you up; you're not alone."

My whole body trembles but not from chill or fear, Matt's voice is low husky, sending shivers of warmth and desire flowing through my body. "I know you see yourself as a leader Sylvie, now that Gabby and Foster are gone. Mackey is new inexperienced, you are the senior paramedic, and yes, she is your responsibility, but you don't have to be superwoman."

"Yes, that's rich coming from you, Captain America." Matt laughs loudly, snorting slightly. "Captain America, what the actual fuck Sylvie? Where did that come from?" giggling into my hands, I start to cough. "Sorry, I don't know; you just look so cute, and Captain America is a hunk."

"Oh, so you think I am a hunk and cute? Checkmate, I am winning." "Oh, Lord, I won't live this down." "Nope, you won't, but seriously Brett, you went through a trauma again; I know how it feels to hold yourself high above your emotions, your shoulders feel weighed down, your head feels as if you are swimming the Olympian of pools." "There's no one to talk to because your men count on you, so you feel as if you have no solution except to bury everything inside of your soul." "That only works for so long, babe, if you keep that pace, you'll exhaust yourself, lose focus and make a mistake which could cause you to lose a life, maybe even your own life."

"Life feels like an illusion right now, Matt. I feel as if I seeing everything through the lenses of a kaleidoscope. I know it's normal to be scared, but I don't feel I can give in to the fear. Boden is trusting me; the city of Chicago is in the middle of a pandemic, I can't afford to break."

"I get it. Believe me, Brett, remember when I was nearly shot last year, you came to talk to me?" I nod, sitting up stretching my eyes connect with his getting lost inside of those ocean blue puppies. "Yeah, I told you that I had lost a patient the year before, and her death hit me hard. Wendy she was a mother of two young kids, she wanted me to tell her kids that she loved them; I couldn't get over how meaningless her death was, all because this guy couldn't afford or choose not to get the mental health he needed."

"Yes, and that was tragic, but what got me Brett was how open you were with your feelings, how you tried to handle everything alone. Despite having a whole house at 51 to support you, even with a partner as experienced and compassionate as Gabby, you took it all on yourself."

"Gabby was in her own world; Matt, she didn't give a damn about me."

"Maybe, but you came to me with those feelings, you shared something so personal, and you told me, don't be a martyr get help, Matt. I did, Brett, I talked to Boden, and you were right. It helped me. I was struggling with nightmares, flashbacks; I didn't feel safe anywhere. Even lying in bed at night with Severide down the hall, I would start feeling tingling and pain, and other sensations like something was entering my head."

"Sometimes, it was so overwhelming. I would sit up and grab my baseball bat; the worst part was that it was always accompanied by helplessness and feeling like screaming or breaking down into tears; I know real manly, right?"

My heart squeezes as Matt pours his heart out to me; I reach out without even thinking about it and brush my palm over his check, which is warm to the tender touch. Matt doesn't pull away; instead, he covers my hand with his smiling at me. God, Matthew Casey is perfect; how can I ever be enough for him? I wish I dared to tell him how I feel about him to let him know he is typically all I think about at night. Matt's a genuinely good man, strong, funny, charismatic, a gentleman who still believes in chivalry. Matt's not perfect; I know that, but he is as close to perfection as any Disney movie could ever create.

Clean-shaven, beyond reasonably fit, the man is a firefighter, the captain of truck 81; he lifts over 300 pounds before breakfast every morning for frigging fun. Matt's biceps are to die for; my hands shake as I ever so casually move my left hand down his check to lay on top of them as if that is perfectly normal between two friends. Matt, ever the gentleman, never flinches; he grins and moves closer.

Athleticism should be Matt's middle name; he swims, rides bikes, plays baseball and soccer, runs over ten miles each day. Matt has a grungy yet clean dress style; he doesn't like facial hair but loves his shaggy blond hair. He's manly in every sense, but he is also sensitive; he calls his mom every weekend even when they are fighting, he protects his sister and niece.

Is it asking too much to have Matt be the one I fall in love with, God? Or to have Matt love me back?

"All I want Brett is for you to take care of yourself too; I don't want to lose you, none of us do; you have a pure heart, a quick sense of timing; you are a natural healer; the world needs more love, Brett."

"Love is a four-letter word Matt; it's overused and overrated."

"Why do you say that?" I stare at Matt, who has inched closer now sitting only three inches apart from me, his hand rests on the top of my knee. "Think about how many times a day we use that word love."

"We say it for everything, I love these sneakers, or omg like I totally love this nail color, or I am so in love with this new band, I love the 90's!"

"The word love has become so overused, and under emotionalized any more people have forgotten how scared the word truly is, the bible states that love is patient and kind; love does not envy or boast; it is not arrogant or rude. It does not insist on its own way; it is not irritable or resentful; it does not rejoice at wrongdoing but rejoices with the truth. Love bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things."

"Yet people declare war for the sake of love. That isn't loving; war is evil; it is violent and cruel; war is the very definition of boastful. So how can one love and kill at the same time? People boast all the time when they cause suffering; they have forgotten the very reason as to why they started the damn war."

"For God so loved the world, that he gave his only Son, that whoever believes in him should not perish but have eternal life. Guess what people said fuck you Jesus and started killing, stealing, spitting at his altar for the sake of their love of drugs, greed, money, and power."

"Marriage is the ultimate act of love a sacred vow between a man and woman, to "become one flesh," as the scripture says. Therefore, God spoke a man shall leave his father and mother and hold fast to his wife, and the two shall become one flesh.' So they are no longer two but one flesh. What therefore God has joined together, let not man separate.

"Guess what Matt another lie, people swear they love each other all the time, they make vows to love, honor and cherish, and days weeks or months later they file for divorce as easily as they change their underwear because they suddenly fell out of love."

I see the hurt flash across Matt's face, but he doesn't fire back; the moment, however, makes me shut-up when I realize I hit a nerve. "You're correct, Sylvie; many people have forgotten the true meaning of the word, the utter beauty of how magical these four letters are when said to the right person, under the right circumstances. I am not many or most people when I say those words; I mean them with my whole heart. I loved Gabby with my whole heart, from the bottom of my soul, and she crushed me when she left, but she didn't' crush my belief that there are good people, love takes its own path, has its own time, a reason, and a rhythm that maybe I am not privilege enough to be in God's inner circle to understand."

"All I know, Brett is no matter how hurt I get from love's scorch, I will never stop wanting to be loved or needing to be in love. Love is timeless; it's truly speechless when done right; Brett love is indescribable how one word's emotion can leave us eager to express what is in our hearts and communicate our feelings to our partner. We want to tell them how much we truly love them, yet we often cannot find the right words."

"Maybe I just have never experienced such a love, Matt." "That's a real shame, Brett, because someone as beautiful as you are inside and out deserves to have every inch of your body kissed, treasured, and devoted upon."

"When I tell a woman I love her; I am not saying it because I want to sleep with her, it's not out of habit, it's because she has become my life, my very reason for believing, breathing, living."

Matt's lips are so close now; I can feel the wetness of them brushing against my ear; every hair is standing at attention. I have never experienced flushing, rushing, tingling a sense of euphoria as I am feeling right now; I never even felt my body arch itself back. Still, I now find myself lying on the pillows staring up into his eyes, as Matt's body has somehow crawled on top of me. It's now that I notice how his hands have snaked up my shirt, lying on my lower back and upper abs.

I don't ask him to move, I can scarcely breathe, all I feel is the chilled night air, his breath against my skin, all I see is the stars inside his eyes as he stares into mine, I glance slightly to see the half-moon nestled between the stars, but they hold nothing compared to Matt's eyes.

"I'm crossing so many lines by saying this, Sylvie, but after almost losing you yesterday, I can't hold back anymore. For the last two years, we have grown closer as friends we've bonded over the loss of Gabby, but we discovered so many common interests; I got to know things about you I never knew in the five years of knowing you, these last few months Brett. I don't know why or how it happened; you have become the last thought in my mind before I drift off to sleep and the first thought when I wake up each morning."

"Sylvie, I don't say this lightly, I have thought long and hard about this, but I can't live a life in fear; I won't let the fear of failure of rejection pressure me into silence. I hope you don't take offense to this; I would love very much to kiss you right now; I would love the chance to take you out on a proper date. May I kiss you, Sylvie Brett?"

Staring into Matt's eyes, I feel my soul leave my body; all I can see is his eyes; the noise of the city has dulled by the thundering of my heart, the rushing of blood to my ears and head. I can't hide anymore from his eyes. I feel my eyes fill with tears, which fall in a slow yet steady procession. "I want you to hold me, Matt; I would love nothing more than to be in your arms, to feel your lips kissing mine. I have tried to fight it, to be loyal to Gabby, but I can't fight it, not when I stare into your eyes; they're like two oceans of perfection."

Matt's lips gently cascade over my lips, filling my pores with the taste of cherries, bourbon, and mint, a lovely, if not strange combination. I never knew a man's lips could be so soft, so gentle his head bends to the left, allowing my neck to arch slightly, a small moan escapes my lips. Matt's hands expertly cup my lower back allowing my muscles to relax and follow his guidance.

Kissing Matt feels as if heaven has opened up and thrown my lips onto the softest of the elated clouds of happiness. At first, slow testing the waters to make sure it's safe but quickly heating up, diving further into his castle on the clouds. Graduating with an intensity that makes me cling to him as the only tangible thing in a dizzy, swaying world of fear and flashbacks. Matt's warm insistent mouth is parting my shaking lips, sending wild tremors along every nerve, evoking sensations I've had never known I am capable of feeling.

Intimacy has never felt so loving, so warm, or so inspiring. I never want this feeling to end, so I close my eyes and lose myself in his delicious kisses of heaven. In the end, love wins; it can't be killed or swept aside. Love can't be denied, hate can destroy us, but love will always lift us and make us fly on wings of hope.

Love is pure; love is divine; love is the universal gift the musical beat of life.


End file.
